


Where We Belong

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Series: The Complications/Where We Belong [2]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea





	1. Chapter 1

The kitchen became busy with pre dinner activity, spilling over into the pantry where Hazel Jeeves curled into a worn armchair with a tattered leather book , surrounded by the stacks of cast off newspapers and magazines that were gathered for the war effort . It was her favorite place at Brinkley Court; snug and tidy with just enough lazy sunlight to read by. Officially, it was the lair of kindly old Mr. Seppings, who often called her ‘dear’ as he offered her warm ends of bread smeared in extra rations of honey, and Hazel had taken a liking to it at an early age.

Tonight, however, she was reading poetry, poetry that required more quiet to comprehend than the pantry offered. She wanted to memorize a passage that had makings in the margin, knowing that her father’s eyes would shine approvingly when she recited it on his birthday. She reluctantly rose, leaving her mug in the sink, and made her way up the stairs, considering the window seat on the east side of the house for her next perch.

She reached the window and stared out over the lush grounds, still picturesque despite being a bit more unkempt than they had been when she was a very young girl. With this view in mind, it was difficult to imagine that the country had been at war until only two months ago. She frowned a moment, wondering what had really become of London. Her father and Uncle Bertie had sent her to Brinkley Court years ago, but had finally come to join her permanently eight months before. Though she preferred their presence to weekly letters and occasional parcels between visits, their arrival had a dark side to it, as well. London had become too dangerous, her father had said, grimly, and Uncle Bertie looked to be on the verge of tears. They might not go home any time soon.

Hazel shared her godfather’s sentiments, for although she loved her family at Brinkley Court, there were other people underfoot, most irritating being the children of other nobles, sent to the country as she had been once London became a target. Several of the children were nice enough, but there were a few that snubbed her because of her father’s profession.

Chief among her adversaries was a girl three months younger named Louise Bingsley, some distant relative of Uncle Tom’s. She possessed long, platinum hair and a silvery laugh, a bitter giggle that accompanied her reminders to Hazel and anyone else that might be around of her father’s rank on a daily basis. She often added that she was the prettier of the pair while she was at it, which seemed both cruel and redundant to Hazel, who felt that anyone with eyes didn’t need a verbal reminder. It wasn’t long before she had begun to dislike Louise’s every aspect, including her name, which at times she thought sounded like the word “sleaze”, but also reminded her of the word “louse.” Louise’s young admirers often sought to endear themselves to her by making snide remarks at Hazel’s expense. She found that it was easy enough to ignore or avoid them for the most part, with the exception of one boy.

His name was Percy Engels, and in a word, she found him repulsive. He was two years her elder, and towered over her despite her lanky legs. He looked a bit like a red potato, with his short gingery hair and skin permanently flushed a blotchy red from playing rugby. Not content to be just another taunting voice in the crowd, he had recently been giving her special attention, cornering her to tell her that the rag and bone man had come looking for her dress, to shove her arm to make her drop her books, and to generally be a nuisance whenever here was no one else around. Hazel had cheered when the fighting ceased, as much for the fact that these horrid people would surely leave Brinkley Court forever now, as much as for her patriotism.

Still, weeks had passed, and yet Percy and Louise were still there. It was infuriating.  
It was doubly infuriating that thinking of the demon seemed to have summoned him. Hazel heard him before she saw him, instinctively rising to slink off when she heard the first thumping of his flat feet. Noticing that she was at a dead end, she sat down again, pretending to not notice him over the pages of her book. She bristled slightly as he sat beside her , bumping her leg and leaning his arm across the window seat to lean on the frame.

“Hullo.” He said, tapping on the cover of the book. “If you don’t take your face out of that book, it’ll stay that way.” He added.

She frowned, folding the slim volume in her lap. “I think you mean…” she sighed, deciding that explaining a mixed metaphor was an exercise in wasted time. “I mean to say, I’m trying to study. I want to memorize this verse, and I need some quiet, please.”

“I’ll be quiet.” He promised, and Hazel, though annoyed, resumed her reading, in hopes that he would grow bored and wander off. She startled as his hand came to rest on her leg.

“Don’t touch me.” She added, pressing herself into the window frame.

“Why not?” he asked, leaning over her, as though he were testing how far he could bend without her flinching. Hazel glared at him until it became apparent that he meant to kiss her, and then pulled away with a small yelp.

“I said, don’t touch me.” She felt as though she had the situation in hand until he stood, as well, once more towering over her. “If you don’t respect my wishes, I’ll tell Aunt Dahlia.” She added.

He laughed, as though she hadn’t been serious. “She’s not even your real Aunt.”

Hazel felt anger rise in her chest. “She won’t be happy about your behavior. You have to follow civil rules when you’re a guest.”

“Crazy old Wooster isn’t even your uncle.” He added.

“He’s my godfather.” Hazel bristled. “This is my house, not yours. You are a guest here, so you should act like one.”

“If he wasn’t so crazy to think that you’re his daughter or something, you’d be down in the kitchen scrubbing pots with your old man.” He took a step forward, and Hazel held her ground, determined to not let him back her into a corner. “You should be happy that someone like me is taking an interest. “ He gripped her shoulder firmly, and leaned closer once again. Hazel tugged her shoulder free, and gasped as he kept the cloth in his grip, ripping the hem of her collar and sending the delicate strand of pearls that Uncle Bertie had given her for her birthday flying out in all directions, a dozen scattering sounds echoing in the stillness of the hall. In her anger, she brought down her foot on his toes as hard as she could.

Percy yelled out in pain, and Hazel met his gaze briefly enough to see the fury in his eyes. Talking advantage of the split second he’d removed his hand from her, she ran, pearls and poetry abandoned on the floor panels. She couldn’t tell if she was being pursued, as her heartbeat was echoing in her ears as she ran blindly. Blindly would do no good, she realized, if she suddenly ran out of places to run to. Uncle Bertie’s room was closest, she knew. She soon found herself at his door, and was dismayed to find the door was locked. Frantically, she threw her shoulder against the door twice before the object gave in, and she flew into the room with a slight sob of panic.

Uncle Bertie seemed to be dressing for dinner, and he looked up at her in alarm. It was then that she realized that her father was there, as well, and with a great cry of relief she launched herself into his arms, faintly wondering why his own shirt buttons were undone to the waist.

“Oh!… oh, Hazel, what seems to be the problem?” Uncle Bertie’s fingers were suddenly brushing her hair back, while her father gripped her tightly.

“Yes, what is it, my precious girl?” her father asked, mumbling into her hair.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and attempted to retell her story. “It’s Percy. He tried to kiss me, and he ripped my blouse, and he… he broke my necklace.” Her voice cracked, and her father squeezed her, reassuringly.

“I shall replace your pearls.” He said, gently. She could tell that he and Uncle Bertie were looking at each other over her head then, as they did when Something Proper needed to be taken care of by Uncle Bertie.

“It’s not that.” She sniffled, angry at herself for sounding so upset over a silly necklace. She couldn’t say that what she really wanted was for her father to lay the brute out cold once and for all, instead of having Uncle Bertie merely complain on her behalf. It just wasn’t the done thing if you came from a proper family. In Hazel’s world, those sort of satisfying brawls only happened in magazines.

“What! I’ve had enough of this young blighter.” Uncle Bertie’s voice was reassuringly angry and firm. “I will not have him thinking he can manhandle my goddaughter in my own family home. He’ll be out of this house before dinner, never to darken our door again.” She felt him rise and leave the room. He wasn’t even dressed, she realized, with rising hope. He was actually going to do something about it.

She shifted in her father’s arms, and sniffled self consciously as he dried her eyes with his handkerchief. “We would never let anything bad happen to you.” He assured her. His eyes were hard and dark, as though he were holding back as many words as she herself was.

“I know, Papa.” She sighed. He held her silently, petting her from hair to shoulder in a soothing motion.

“Did he do anything else to you? “ he asked, his voice grim. Hazel shook her head frantically, embarrassed by what her father’s question was suggesting.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” he added, quietly. She shook her head again.

A small, squeaking noise alerted them to Uncle Bertie’s arrival. Now that she was calmer, she had to smile at the sight. His cuffs were undone, and he had neither jacket nor trousers on. She almost laughed, imagining him demanding to speak with Aunt Dahlia in such a state.

“He’s on his way.” Uncle Bertie said, with a sweep of his hand. “Out the door and onto the next train, and good riddance!” he slammed the door behind him, and took his place beside her on the bed. “Don’t cry, little love.” He added, taking the handkerchief from her fingers and attempting to dab at tear stains that had already dried.

“I’m not.” She swallowed, and sat up, feeling drained.

“He’s really gone?” she asked, softly.

“Kicked him out the back door myself.” Uncle Bertie replied, earning a small smile from both father and daughter. “Now, what can I do to make you feel better?” he asked, folding her hands in his earnestly.

“I want to go back to London.” She blinked, surprised that the words had come to her lips without her planning them.

Her father and godfather exchanged another set of their curious looks, and her father opened his mouth as if to say something. Uncle Bertie spoke first, nervously rubbing the back of his head.

“Hazel… er. Well.That is, well. You know that we love you; very, very much, of course. And you know that your father and I are, well. Lovers. Right?” he added, shyly, glancing nervously between her and her father.

For a long moment, time seemed to hold still.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Wooster, (for even after years of our intimate relationship and countless declarations of undying love for each other, that is what I call him); raised his worried eyes to me. We hadn’t planned on telling Hazel about what was between us today. Someday, yes; but when she was older, when things were less complicated than they are now. His eyes pleaded with me his case, that it would never be less complicated, that having her know the truth now would save us anxiety when we were once again living as a family in London. Those sweet, soulful eyes softened me, as they often do. Being of the opinion that it is better to act first and beg mercy later, Mr. Wooster had told her all, and since getting angry with him would only complicate matters more, I relented and rested my hand on his.

“You did know, right?” Mr. Wooster asked her again, sheepishly this time, casting his glance to me for reassurance. I tightened my grip on his fingers.

My daughter is a thoughtful, clever girl, and usually not at a loss for words; but the sudden revelation had silenced her. She looked to us, and smiled in that soft way that she has. “I know, Uncle Bertie.” She replied. “I think I always knew.”

“And it’s … okay?” he asked, apprehensively, for he loved this girl as surely as I loved her myself. Her disapproval would break him, and I prayed that she had sense enough to see that, and remember all that he had done for us. I needn’t have worried.

“Of course it’s okay.” She muttered, and crawled across the bed to lean on him. Since she was a baby, Mr. Wooster had coddled her, holding her indulgently on his lap, so that she could sigh into his shirt and he into her hair. Once she became too big for his lap, she’d simply pressed herself against his side to approximate the same position. In recent years, doing so was a sign to me that she was feeling ill, unsure, or unsafe. To Mr. Wooster, it was simply a reassurance that his little girl loved him still, and he didn’t worry about anything in Hazel’s psychology that would make her act in a vulnerable way.

“I mean, it makes sense. It fits.” She sighed into the fabric of his shirt once more. “People don’t treat their servants the way you treat Papa. The way you treat me.” She added.

Mr. Wooster worried his lip. “You mean, other people can tell?” he asked, fear creeping into his eyes.

She shook her head. “No. They don’t see us together. Maybe Aunt Dahlia knows, I’m not sure.” She picked at the bedspread and frowned, thoughtfully.

“I’m sure you know what the consequences would be if it were discovered.” I trusted her discretion, of course, but my own apprehension was slick in my stomach, having festered for over fifteen years. “We could both be imprisoned, but, far worse, they would take you from us. From me. I love you far too much for that to happen.” My voice broke as I imagined someone else raising my daughter, someone who would scorn her, demand her gratitude, and not give her the opportunities that Mr. Wooster had blessed her with after saving her life. I would take no chances. “We both carry a key to the safe deposit box in New York at all times, and we will have one made for you, as well. If the worst is to happen, you are to flee to France and set sail for New York. We will meet at the cottage in Long Island.”

She is a good girl. She nodded obediently, and leaned up to kiss me. “I will, Papa. I promise.”

A sudden knock at the door informed us that dinner was served, and Mr. Wooster sighed as he pulled on his trousers and tried to look respectable. “Will you be eating with us, Hazel?” he asked, gently.

She shook her head. “I’ll eat with Papa tonight in the hall. Tell Aunt Dahlia thank you, for getting rid of Percy. Ask her if she can do anything about Louise.” She added, darkly. Mr. Wooster took her scorn for humor, and gave her a lopsided grin as he kissed her on the forehead. Then, looking determined, he leaned closer, and lightly brushed his lips against mine. When Hazel didn’t seem disturbed, his eyes lit up like a thousand stars, and he was smiling widely as he left.

“Thank you, dearest.” I sighed, as she leaned against me in his stead. “I did not wish to be alone.”

She nodded. “Uncle Bertie never married because of you, right?” she asked, quietly.

I nodded. “Perhaps it would be too much to assume that it was solely due to me, my dearest. I believe that Mr. Wooster has always been one of nature’s bachelors, even before I was fortunate enough to accept his proposition.”

She bit her lip. “But, he would never marry, ever, because of you. And you’d never marry because of him?”

“I would have no one else. I will serve him until the day I die.” I assured her. “Mr. Wooster’s heart is pure, and he has promised it to me. He does not lie, or make promises lightly. Does it worry you, precious?”

She was quiet a moment, weighing the words in her mind. “Sometimes. It’s silly, I know. Some of the others here are always laughing at me, because I’m not really his daughter. They say that he’s looney, and that … that I should be a servant. That I’m not good enough to be one of them.” She looked down, angrily, and I felt myself cringe. I had always strived to give her a sense of humility, knowing the attitudes of the upper class, while Mr. Wooster thwarted my efforts by spoiling her. It is his wish that she should marry above her station, or, failing that, that she should live comfortably off his fortune. Of course I would not deny her a bright future, but I wished that she should be strong enough to know that her worth lies elsewhere. I am loathe to admit it, but her words wounded my both my professional pride, and my pride as a man.

“Are you ashamed of me, of my work?” I asked, sternly. If it was to be a night of revelations, then I justified my question in the thought that it would be senseless to do things halfway. I must confess that I might have been redirecting my previous agitation at Mr. Wooster at this particular moment. At the same time, I fought to control that anger, for even if society was beginning to frown on my life’s work, the shadow of socialism that loomed large over us might contain a silver lining in that it might make my daughter’s life easier in the future. I told myself that I must remember that.

She gasped, and sat up, her eyes widened in distress. “No! It’s not that, Papa. Never. I’m … angry. You, and Mr. Seppings, and everyone else, you’re worth ten of them each, but no one ever says it. It’s just that I don’t belong with them, but I don’t belong with the servants, either. And… and if Uncle Bertie marries, you’ll go to work for someone else. Even if he keeps you, he’ll have his own children, a son that carries his name, or… or a proper girl with blond curls and blue blood. Someone like Louise.” She sniffed.

I wrapped my arms around her protectively. That my own child should fear what I did, losing the love of the same man, tore me to shreds. “My dearest Hazel… I do not think it is possible to conceive just how much he loves us.” I blinked back the threat of my own tears, which I would never allow her to see. “We are his family, and he yearns for no other. He could have married anyone, my dearest, but he chose us to share his life with. He wanted a child so desperately that I left him, to give him that chance. Despite that, and despite the danger that his choice places him in, he still chose us. You are his daughter.” I found myself trembling as I chose my words. I remembered the quiet wonder in his eyes as he held Hazel for the first time, how he had adored how her eyes were like mine, how he never said a word about the piles of bills that totaled twice of what I made in a year, and how he had insisted that she be well educated and sent to Brinkley Court at the first sign of danger. I remembered him holding her, teaching her to play the piano, and bringing her to lay lilies on her mother’s grave every year after paying his respects to his own parents. Once she was away at school, he had continued to tend to the grave, thanking my wife for the gift of her daughter. Mr. Wooster was, in short, an angel in human form, and though my daughter shared certain traits with him, her skeptical, cautious nature that had caused her such pain was purely derived from my own spirit. I felt the need to reassure her beyond any doubt of our sincerity.

“I’m just so relieved that you love each other, because then we can always be a family.” She wiped her eyes with a sigh. “You know, I always thought that there was something wrong with everyone else. I saw you and Uncle Bertie getting along so well, and it made me sad that everyone couldn’t have that same sort of relationship. I thought it was normal to care about someone so much, but it turns out that normal is what I see every day here, snobs above the stairs and gossip below, and me stuck in the middle. I don’t know if things will be easier in London, but I want to try. At least then I won’t be the one making sure that everyone gets along. I mean, I don’t mind helping, but…”

“Hush, precious. I know.” I knew the feeling well, indeed, yet moving between classes and social circles has always been a delight for me. For Hazel, it had become a strain, but as to if it were because I felt that I had a place to belong where she didn’t, or if she had simply adopted Mr. Wooster’s preference for a stable, placid, life I could not say for certain.

“Can we really go back to London, Papa?” she asked. “Please?”

“We shall have to discuss it, but I anticipate that we will return home. As for what we will have left to come home to, we shall have to see.” Of course Mr. Wooster had longed to return to the metropolis, as well, so there was little to discuss. I was only anxious about the very real possibility that our home might be in ruins, that the entire city would be rendered uninhabitable for the purposes of a gentleman like Mr. Wooster. I feared the heartbreak that awaited us upon seeing our beloved city destroyed, and the arduous task of rebuilding our lives; and yet, I would not deny either of my loves their desire to do so, now that the bombing had ceased.

She smiled. My daughter has the loveliest smile to ever grace a woman’s lips. With that sight, I felt as though I had lost a crippling weight that I had dragged behind me for years. I felt certain that she would find her place in the city, as much as I had found mine, and Mr. Wooster, his. That we could finally find it together was more than I had ever dared to hope for.


End file.
